Temptation's Kiss (6 page)

She jerked the card from the holder and ripped it open. The singular initial leaped off the card to mock her. It was in his own handwriting. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to have roses delivered to her this early in the morning. Had her kiss been that good? she thought scathingly. Was this payment for services rendered?

Tempted to crush the card and toss it into the wastepaper basket, she laid it on her desk instead and stared at it as she took a seat in the leather chair. “Thank you for the evening. J.” The words implied so much more than there had been. He could make even a courteous gesture seem tawdry.

“Damn him,” she cursed under her breath. Unobtrusively, Arlene came in carrying a cup of coffee. Megan barely noticed when it was placed in front of her. She continued to stare at the card and curse the man who had kept sleep at bay all night

More than she wanted to admit, his kisses and caresses had affected her. Over the past years, while she'd been married to James, and after his death, she'd told herself that the kisses she'd shared with Josh in the gazebo had been embellished by her imagination. That night her emotions had been running high. As a soon-to-be bride, she was feeling loved, desired, beautiful, romantic. No wonder a tall, dark stranger had been able to sweep her off her feet. It was the perfect cliché. But it had only been a fleeting encounter. No big deal.

Why, then, had she never been able to forget it? No,
more
than that, why was the memory of it never far from her conscious thought? It lurked on the outskirts of her mind, pouncing out periodically with taunting reminders of her culpability.

“You don't like Josh, do you?” James had asked her one evening over dinner.

Her fork had clattered to her plate. She had laughed nervously. “Of course I like him. What made you ask that!”

“I've hounded you to invite him over for dinner. You've always got an excuse why we can't. Every time he's asked us out, you've found a good reason not to go, but insist that I go alone. It looks to me like you're avoiding him. Why, sweetheart?”

James had been concerned. He had liked the man he worked for. She had teased him about imagining things and promised to have Joshua Bennett over for dinner at the next opportunity—an opportunity that had never come.

At the Bennett Agency office Christmas party, which James begged her to attend with him, Josh's eyes had seemed to follow her like those of a hawk. When he asked her to dance, she was obliged to do so or cause James to wonder at her rudeness. Josh had taken her into his arms with the detachment of an employer dancing with an employee's wife, yet she had sensed the tension in his sleek muscles.

“You look beautiful in Christmas green, Megan,” he had said. Instead of speaking over the music, he spoke under it, intimately.

“Thank you,” she murmured, wishing he had changed colognes since the night before her wedding. The fragrance filling her head as he held her within the circle of his deceptively loose arms was far too potent a reminder of how it felt to be pressed firmly against that virile physique.

He had returned her to James the moment the dance ended. As he wished her a Merry Christmas, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a platonic kiss that even the stodgiest spinster couldn't object to. Everyone had laughed, because they were standing under a sprig of mistletoe. But the touch of his warm lips against her skin had robbed Megan of laughter. For some insane reason she had wanted to weep.

And she had. Late that night, lying beside a snoring James, who had celebrated a little too much, she had cried. When they had arrived home, she had seduced him into making love to her. Her uncharacteristic aggression had been desperate and brazen, to the delight of her tipsy husband. Afterward, silently, she had wept bitter tears of remorse. Their lovemaking had never given her the breathless rush of joy, the loss of equilibrium, that Josh's kisses had.

James's embraces left her with a mildly pleasant glow. Josh's sent splinters of feeling missiling through her mind and body, setting off tiny flames that combined into an inferno that wouldn't burn itself out.

Josh had confessed that he'd wanted her in spite of the fact that she was his friend's wife. If she were honest with herself, she'd have to admit that she'd dallied with thoughts of him too. She had loved James, had grieved over his premature death, and missed him still. But always Josh Bennett had stood between them.

There had never been, nor would there ever be, a place for him in her life.

Grimly Megan carried the vase of roses to the credenza under the window. She couldn't ignore them altogether, but she could put them in a less conspicuous place, where she wouldn't have to look at them constantly and thus think about their sender.

The morning passed quickly. Two of her salespeople came in to briefly discuss the peculiarities of specific accounts. Then an advertiser called, irate because, during the evening newscast, his commercial had run for a good ten seconds without audio.

Megan called the production chief, who sheepishly confirmed it. “I'll have to arrange for a make-good, Harry. This is the third one in a month. Don't you realize that every time I have to make good a spot, it costs us a few thousand dollars? Especially if the commercial airs during a newscast.”

“Hell, yes, I realize it,” he grumbled. “I told you I'm training a new director.”

“That's your problem, but I don't think the eleven o'clock news is a good training ground.” His muttered curse didn't intimidate her in the least “Get your act together, Harry.”

“It's not fair, you know. You look like an angel, but you've got a heart of stone.”

“No one said life was fair.” she clicked off the line, only to notice that another call was coming through. Pressing down the blinking lighted button, she said, “What now, Arlene?”

“This isn't Arlene.”

For the few hours her mind had been wrapped up in her work, she'd almost forgotten him. Almost. Hearing his voice now, she glanced involuntarily toward the roses. With the sunlight shining on them, the delicate petals were translucent. She couldn't neglect to acknowledge that she'd received them.

“Hello, Josh.”

“Hi. How's your day going?”

“Typically. I've been putting out brush fires.” His deep chuckle stroked her ear and sent a shiver tiptoeing down her spine. “Thank you for the roses.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'll return the vase to you as soon—”

“It's yours,” he said sharply.

“But—”

“We're reviewing the Seascape commercials this afternoon,” he interrupted brusquely. “Terry will be here. He asked that you come over. Ms. Hampson is tied up with another client. He wants your advice on when to air them, etc.”

Megan gnawed her bottom lip. “You can advise him on that as well as I can, Josh.”

“Yes, but he wants you.”

“Then what's he paying you for?” she asked nastily. If it was necessary for her to view the commercials, she would do it gladly, but she had a notion that her being there to voice an opinion was Josh's idea, not Terry's. If Jo Hampson weren't available this afternoon, the preview could be set for another time.

“Do you have an appointment after four o'clock?”

“Yes,” she said, without consulting her calendar.

“Four-thirty?” Josh asked tightly. His tone all but said he knew she was lying.

What was the use? She'd have to go. She didn't want another session with Atherton in which she would feel like she'd been tattled on. “Where?” she asked with a weary sigh.

“Here. Ask the receptionist to direct you to the viewing room. As I recall, you've never been here before.”

“I wouldn't be coming today if I could help it.”

“Four-thirty, Mrs. Lambert,” he said briskly, and hung up, his frustration all too apparent.

It couldn't have exceeded hers.

At least she looked coolly professional and not like a flutter-hearted teenager, which was how she felt as she rode up the elevator to the Bennett Agency's suite of offices on the top three floors of the high-rise office building.

Her dress was a crisp linen navy blue with smart brass military buttons down the front and on the patch pockets over each breast. She wore it with navy-and-white spectator pumps. At the time she'd bought the dress, she lamented that she couldn't wear the red blazer that went with it—it clashed with her hair—so she'd settled for one in canary yellow. It might have been second choice, but the combination with her own unique coloring was stunning.

She'd been told how luxurious the offices of the Bennett Agency were, but she wasn't quite prepared for the sight that greeted her when the stainless-steel doors of the elevator whooshed open.

The carpet was dark hunter green and stretched across the expanse to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Couches and easy chairs covered with peach, ivory, or powder-blue damask were scattered strategically throughout the enormous reception area.

“Hello, Ms. Lambert,” the receptionist said cordially the moment Megan stepped onto the carpet, which sank a full inch beneath her shoe. “Mr. Bennett and Mr. Bishop are waiting for you. This way, please.”

Megan followed her across the room, which was permeated by soft, lilting music coming from invisible speakers. The receptionist, who had the grace, figure, and impeccable grooming of a high-fashion model, opened tall double doors and stood aside to allow Megan to pass through them. “Thank you,” she said before the woman closed the doors quietly behind her.

She hadn't been led to a projection room, but to Josh's office. His desk was gigantic, leather topped, and littered with papers. Storyboards, sketches, scripts, diagrams, magazines, and glossy photographs were strewn across its surface. So his executive image wasn't all for show. He
did
actually work.

“Megan.” She turned, startled by his voice. Why did it always sound like a caress? “Forgive us for being so casual, but it's close to quittin’ time.”

He was coming toward her from a long, deep leather sofa upholstered in chamois-colored kid. He had taken off his suit jacket, as had Terry Bishop, who also stood up to greet her. Josh took her elbow casually and escorted her toward the intimate arrangement of comfortable furniture that might have been found in someone's den.

“Hi, Megan.”

“Hello, Terry,” she said, extending her hand for him to shake. “It's good to see you again.”

“Likewise. When Josh suggested that he invite you to come view the commercials, I thought it was a terrific idea. As I told you last night, I trust your judgment on when to air them—all that stuff I know nothing about.”

She cast an accusing glance at Josh, whose golden eyes were dancing with unconcealed mischief. What did he care if he'd been caught in a he? He'd gotten exactly what he wanted, as always. “We were having a glass of Perrier. Would you like one?” Josh offered.

“No, thank you.”

“Juice, coffee, a mixed drink?”

“No,” she said with more asperity than necessary. “Thank you,” she added for Terry Bishop's benefit.

“Then, let's go into the projection room,” Josh said, not in the least perturbed by her hostility.

They made their way through a labyrinth of hallways. Unlike the serenity of the reception area, the corridors of the office complex were like a honeycomb, riddled with chambers of activity and rushing workers.

The projection room contained eight tiered rows of theatre seats. The back wall had a tiny square through which the filmed commercials would be projected onto the large white screen at the front of the room.

“These films will be dubbed onto video-tape cartridges for the television stations’ use,” Josh said by way of explanation. Seeing her stony expression, he added, “But of course you know that.”

“Of course.”

Instead of being embarrassed, Josh only grinned and chucked her under the chin. Terry, whose back was turned to take his seat, didn't see the playfully affectionate gesture or the way Megan dodged it.

After a brief conference with the projectionist, Josh sat down in the row behind the one where Megan and Terry sat side by side. She was relieved that Josh hadn't chosen to sit next to her, but her relief was short-lived. As soon as the first commercial began to run, he moved to the edge of his seat and leaned forward to whisper comments.

His forearms were crossed on the backs of their seats. Ostensibly his points were made for the benefit of them both, but his lips were often arousingly close to Megan's ear, her cheek, her neck. His nearness sent tremors throughout her body.

“Well, what do you think?” Terry asked her anxiously when the first sixty-second commercial had run.

He peered at her through thick eyeglasses that magnified his eyes, but she wasn't nearly as aware of them as she was of Josh's amber eyes, capped by a scarred eyebrow, which watched her too closely.

Was Josh looking at her mouth? Nervously, she wet her lips with a darting tongue, then hoped to heaven he didn't think she'd done it to entice him. Terry was waiting for her reply. What had he asked her? “The commercial was beautifully done. The production house you hired did a super job. If all the commercials are this good, within a week of their airing Seascape will be booked up for the year.”

Obviously relieved, Terry returned his myopic eyes to the screen, where a couple was walking hand in hand along a deserted beach. They were silhouetted darkly against a vibrant sunrise. Once she looked back at the screen, Megan did a double take. A moment later, she heard Josh's amused drawl.

“No, they're not naked, though they look it, the way they were photographed. We planned it that way, but almost overshot our mark. This commercial borders on being too erotic.”

“I hope no one shows up at Seascape expecting a nude beach. We offer a lot of amenities, but that isn't one of them,” Terry said, laughing.

Megan couldn't voice a reply. Her eyes were riveted on the man and woman, who were now seen in a close-up silhouetted kiss. Their lips melted together, their bodies gravitating toward each other, until two previously distinct forms became one unbroken shadow. Her heart pounding, Megan realized that the features she projected onto the models were those of herself and—